Matchmaker Matchmaker Make Me a Match
by darthsydious
Summary: prompt fill for One-Amber-Owl. Sherlock and Molly accidentally swap their scarves and they don't realize but everyone else did. Combined with sweet-sweet-escape and consulting-pathologist who also requested matchmaking team Warstan and Mythea. Naturally ends in Sherlolly. Multi-chapter!
1. Matchmaker Matchmaker Make Me a Match

"I've got to go," Sherlock grabbed his coat from the rack in her office, tugging at the scarf stuck under the sleeve of his coat. He quickly wrapped it around his neck, not bothering to check. "I'll be back for those samples later, will they be ready?"

"They will if you remember to switch the machine on," Molly said with a grin, hanging up her lab coat. "I've got that John Doe funeral, so I'll be back after lunch to let you in,"

"Ugh, fine," he jogged across the lab, turning on the centrifuge on before jogging out, kissing her forehead in thanks as he passed. She flushed pink, taking her coat and scarf from the hook. Sherlock was much more affectionate lately. She hoped it would last. Perhaps it was a turning point for them. Still, even if it wasn't, it was just easier to be around him. Tying her scarf around her neck, she sighed, so pleasantly comfortable at that very moment. Life wasn't perfect, there was a fake Moriarty running loose, along with the rest of the London underbelly creeping up into the news now that Sherlock Holmes was back in London, but still. If it meant Sherlock came to her flat every two days to use as a bolt hole, that he'd brush her hair because it helped him think, or he'd let her make dinner and actually sit with her and listen as she talked, then she'd take the good with the bad.

 **Outside Barts**

"Nice scarf," Mary said as Sherlock strode up to the car. He frowned at her.

"Thank you…" His nose twitched. "New perfume, Mary?"

"No," now it was her turn to frown, though there was a twinkle in her eyes.

"Hm. My coat was near Molly's at Barts, must have been too close to hers."

"Oh, yes," Mary nodded, wide-eyed and trying very hard not to giggle.

"Okay," John jogged out of the clinic, checking the doors to be sure they were locked. "Let's get going- what in God's name are you wearing?"

"What?" Sherlock asked, and Mary nudged her husband, shaking her head slightly. John stared at his former flat mate, utterly confused. Sherlock Holmes was wearing Molly Hooper's pink and black striped scarf, tucked snugly around his neck and down the front of his coat to keep from flapping in the wind.

"Have I missed something, are you and Molly finally sorting things out?"

"What? What do we have to sort out?" Sherlock asked. John glanced between Mary (who looked as if she was on the verge of a laughing fit) and Sherlock.

"You know what, never mind, let's go."

 **St. Mary's Cemetery, unmarked gravesite**

"Do you smell cologne?" Molly asked, low. Greg turned, eyes settling to the familiar blue scarf around her neck, mouth twitching, fighting a grin.

"No…why?"

"No I just…I've been smelling cologne since I left the hospital."

"Since you uh, put your coat on?"

"Yes, well nearly," she shivered, burying her nose in the scarf, keeping her eyes on the entrance of the graveyard, waiting for the hearse to pull in. "It's not a bad scent, just thought I was going mad-" she suddenly straightened, eyes alight. "Oh I'm such an idiot!"

"Yeah?" Greg chuckled, having guessed her predicament.

"My coat was under Sherlock's on the hook, his cologne probably got on my collar!" Greg rubbed his forehead.

"Ok." Molly sighed, hands deep in her pockets as she danced from one foot to the other, pleased she had 'solved' the mystery.

It didn't take long for the burial, a priest came and went in about five minutes. Molly and Greg watched a man with a snow-plow push the dirt back over the coffin.

"Not very dignified, is it?" she asked.

"Well, better than sitting in storage for eternity." She was looking at the grave.  
"What makes you think this isn't storage?" He looked at her, almost horrified, then shook his head.

"You spend too much time with Sherlock."

"Do I?" She smirked.

"Come on, I'll give you a ride back to Barts, need to meet him and John anyway."

 **Barts**

They all arrived nearly at the same time, Sherlock noticed before Molly did, seeing the familiar blue around her neck. He stopped short, reaching up to suddenly realize that the scarf around his neck was in fact her black and pink striped scarf she'd knitted last April. Mary saw him pause.

"Problem?"

"No," he straightened, chin up. "Not a bit, why?"

"Oh, nothing, you seemed to suddenly remember something," Mary smiled, and he knew she'd known all along. She moved closer, both of them watching as Molly unzipped her coat. "Are you going to tell her?"

"Not if you won't." Mary looked up at him, surprised, but smiling. "Her scarf is warmer than mine," he excused.

"Mmhm," Mary moved past him. "Molly, Sherlock was wondering if you wanted to join John and I for drinks tonight?"

"Oh!" Molly turned away from the coat rack as she hung up her coat and scarf. "That'd be lovely!" Sherlock was about to protest he had extended no such invitation, but Molly had turned to him, smiling so brightly, her cheeks rosy from the cold. He felt Mary shove him forward, and he caught a whiff of his cologne on Molly's collar mixing with her own perfume and heaven help him if it wasn't the most intoxicating scent in the world.

"Yes," was all he managed to get out.

"You said something about eight o'clock…at Angelo's."

"Oh that'll be fun," Molly said, and flushed, realizing how close Sherlock was to her. "Oh, I got a text from Stamford, he said your tests printed out, they're waiting for you to look over them."

"Excellent!" his eyes lit up. "Would…you care to join me?"

"I've got ten minutes before I have to take care of my next body."

"Perfect!" he stepped aside for her to lead the way, leaving John, Mary and Greg in the hallway. At once, they all looked at each other, heaving a sigh.

"Think this is ever gonna happen?" Greg asked.

"Oh yes," Mary smiled brightly. "Especially if we help it along." She stuffed Molly's scarf into the sleeve of Sherlock's coat, doing the same with Molly's coat and Sherlock's scarf. "Come on, we've got work to do."

"What work?" both Greg and John asked.

"Matchmaking, dearies," Mary said, a hitch in her step as she took them by the hand. "Come on!"

Mary Watson was nothing short of brilliant. A fact she well knew. She also knew Sherlock Holmes was head-over-heels for Molly Hooper, but the stupid clot would never make a move because he was so hung up on the idea that Molly was over him. Well. She could fix that in a hurry. But how? Thus far, invitations to the two of them to meet her and John for dinners had fallen flat with amiable partings at the end of the night.

"I could get him drunk," John offered, and Greg nodded eagerly.

"No, no, he'd hate himself in the morning, thinking he'd done some awful injustice."

"What about Mycroft?"

"We talked about locking them up," Mary shrugged.

"Can he and Anthea arrange something?" Greg asked.

"A double date with his own brother?" Both Mary and John spoke at once.

"Okay, but we'll have to think of something. Something where he can…" Greg gestured helplessly. "Woo her?"

"She deserves to be treated like a princess, all the crap she's gone through for him."

"Hmm," Mary nodded agreeing. Suddenly, her eyes lit up. She whirled around. "Oh!" John looked at her curiously, knowing the wheels were turning. "Oh!" she clasped his face, kissing him soundly. "Oh John Watson, you are pretty as you are brilliant!"

"Yes I know," he answered. "Why am I brilliant this time?"

"Princess- there's a winter ball-" she waved her free hand, digging through the stack of mail. "It's perfect, it's swank, it's absolutely- ah!" she held up the invitation.

"Where'd you get that?"

"Mycroft sent me one for that errand we did for him while we were on our honeymoon."

"You mean when he dropped off that wrapped package-" John gave her a look. "Don't tell me that was a bomb."

"No, no, not entirely," Mary shrugged, ripping open the invitation. "I'm sure if I asked Anthea she'd get Sherlock and Molly and invitation, and if we tell Mycroft it's a matter of getting his mother off his and Anthea's backs as far as grandchildren go, I'm sure he'll be thrilled to help Molly find the most perfect gown and accoutrements." She hurried off to make the appropriate calls, and John and Greg looked at eachother.

"You're gonna need a suit, mate," Greg said with a grin.


	2. For Papa Make Him a Scholar

"Are-are you sure this is alright? Mycroft won't be mad you're taking the day to go shopping with me?"

"Why should he care?" Anthea asked, she held up another gown, studying the color next to Molly. She scrunched her face. "Mm. No, next, where's that Elie Saab, that one from last year, the blush from the fall-winter collection, with the beading, yes!" Anthea snatched up the creation, thrusting it at Molly. "Here, go, put this on,"

"But-"

"No buts, a figure like yours hidden behind a-line sheaths? Please, we want him to be positively plotzing when he sees you."

"But it's got see-through bits on it!"

"I know!" Anthea said with a grin before shutting the door.

Molly held up the hem of the gown, coming out of the dressing room in her sock-feet.  
"Well?"

"We're closer," Anthea said. "Something along the same vein,"

"What are you going to wear?" Molly asked. Anthea nodded to a gown hanging near the selection by the same designer, though it was made entirely of lace and strategically placed embroidery.

"Oh everyone will be in bright colors, it's a winter ball," Anthea waved her hand.

"Well…I'm guessing you want me to stand out…right?" Molly asked. She smiled, looking at her feet. "Because you're trying to get Sherlock to do something about us, if there is an 'us'."

"There is," Anthea said firmly. "And you're right, we're all hoping tonight is…" she frowned, searching for words.

"You want Sherlock to…plotz?" Molly supplied and the PA laughed.

"Oh Molly, it's so clear he loves you," Anthea sighed. "But his trouble is he's a Holmes, and I'll be damned if I let him patshkies around until you're both old and full of regrets." It was rare for Anthea to drop her usual business-like façade. "Mamaleh, you deserve a good man, and he is."

"I know he is," Molly's smile was fond.

"He just needs a little help realizing he deserves you, too."

"So…" Molly's smile grew a little more mischievous.

"So we're gonna get you all fapitzed." Anthea took her by the hand, bringing her back to the dressing room. "Hey," she waved over a sales girl. "Bring me that rack from 2013, I wonder if we can customize one,"

The manager promised the dress would be finished and delivered in time for that evening. Across town, Sherlock was dragged to Ede & Ravenscroft tailors, glaring at his reflection.

"I hate wearing tails."

"Stop being a baby, we've all got to wear them, it's white-tie," John said.

"Why am I even going?" Sherlock asked.

"Because Molly needs a date," John replied. Sherlock looked to his friend, surprised.

"Why would she need a date?"

"She's been invited too."

"Obviously…" Sherlock ground out. "I mean…is she incapable of getting a date?"

"Well, no one's asked her, and since she's done you so many favors, we thought you might play escort for her tomorrow night." John straightened the lapels on his suit, turning to Sherlock. "You're not doing anything tomorrow night anyway. You don't hate dancing, whatever you say, besides, Molly would really, really appreciate it." Sherlock's eyes fairly glazed over. John slapped him on the back. "Heck. She might even thank you." Sherlock turned red.

"John!"

"What?! I meant with a cup of coffee," his grin was far too wicked, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I expect Mary is taking her shopping."

"No, Anthea,"

"Oh, brilliant, she and Mycroft will have her dolled up like some…society brat with…"

"With…"

"I don't know!" Sherlock burst out. "But it won't be Molly."

"So you're not taking her?" John asked.

"I never said I wouldn't! But she won't look like her. Everyone wants her to change, as if she needs to," hands in his pockets, he looked at his shoes. "She's fine the way she is."

"So she is," John agreed. "You might want to get flowers for her too, when you pick her up tomorrow."

"Why?"

"Social construct. It's polite," John shrugged.

"Oh."

"It's tradition to get orchids or-"

"How stupid do you think I am?" Sherlock scoffed. "She hates orchids. She likes daffodils best, but they're out of season. I shall get her roses." John covered his grin, rubbing his nose to keep himself from chuckling.

"That's good then," he said.

"Should I not?" Sherlock asked. "Perhaps I should bring her something other than flowers."

"You could do that," John nodded.

"Well…I suppose I could make a quick stop and Van Cleef and Arpels," John nearly choked.

Thirty minutes later, they were standing in the famous jewelry store, Sherlock bent over a case.

"Are you looking for something in particular?" the shop clerk asked.

"Something for his friend," John supplied.

"Molly is hardly a friend, John," Sherlock scolded. John was about to protest but Sherlock continued: "She is far more than that. But…not…" The shop clerk smiled.

"I think I have something for you then sir," he motioned Sherlock over to a display case. Removing a velvet display case, diamonds, sapphires and emeralds shimmering and glittering, he placed them on the glass counter and stepped back. Sherlock bent, scrutinizing.

"The third one is exceptional."

"Sherlock that's…"

"Shush John."  
"Excellent taste sir,"

"And that feather necklace as well," Sherlock pointed to a stunning gold and diamond necklace.

"Very good sir. Shall I wrap them now?"

"Give the necklace a shine and send it to this address," he handed over a card with the baker street address on it. "It will be worn tonight. The other will come with me now."

"Whom shall I charge it to?"

"Me," John stared as Sherlock retrieved his wallet and proceeded to hand over his bank card.

"Sherlock…"

"John, I do wish you'd say something other than my name,"

"That's…a lot of money is all," John said, eyes still wide as the clerk happily rang up the two items, quoting the total that nearly choked the good doctor. Sherlock merely waved the teller to go ahead and swipe the card.

"If you're concerned that I don't have enough, need I remind you I was away for two years doing odd jobs all over the world in between shutting down Moriarty's network. Naturally I earned a hefty sum. I'm more than happy to spend it on Molly."

"Who's just a friend," John added.

"Yes," Sherlock pocketed the velvet case, stuffing his bank card back into his wallet. "Just a friend."


	3. He's a Matchless Match

"This is silly, I look ridiculous," Molly stared at herself in the mirror.

"You look beautiful," Anthea said, voice crackling over the speakerphone.

"Anthea the top half is practically sheer! This beading is going to break, I swear I'm gonna get a pull and it'll all come undone and I'll be in public with my tits out."

"It is not, you most certainly will not, that's what the nude corset is for," Anthea soothed. "Elie Saab does not make mistakes. It's beautiful on you, Mycroft, tell her she's beautiful,"

"As I have yet to see whatever it is you are wearing, I can only assume Sherlock will think you are ravishing, my dear," Mycroft said over the phone. "The car should be there in ten minutes, we'll see you there."

"Yes, right…" the phone blinked, signaling the end of the call. She turned back to the mirror, reaching into the bodice to tug at the corset once more to make sure it was firmly in place. It didn't budge, so that meant she wasn't going anywhere at least. "Okay," she looked at her chest. "If you promise to behave, I promise never to wear my old ragged bra again." She looked at her reflection, scrutinizing, trying to look at herself the way Sherlock would. That didn't do any good, but she honestly could find no fault in her appearance, and gave a little twirl, smiling. The gown was beautiful. It was so light and the fabric floated and billowed with every step she took. The heels Anthea had bought for her were stunning, and clicked deliciously on hardwood floors that made Molly (even at thirty-four) to giggle like a child and feel like a princess. A sudden knock on the door and she stopped twirling, catching herself on the chair.

"Coming," quickly checking her hair and lipstick once more, she hurried across the room, one hand firmly over her breasts to keep them from jumping (down, ladies) as she ran. Opening the door, she swept her skirt back so she wouldn't step on it. "Sorry, I'm nearly ready, I just have to change my bag," she waved Sherlock on. Turning from removing her phone and wallet from her bulky day bag, she gave a delighted gasp. "Oh you look so handsome!" Sherlock blinked, still standing in the doorway.

"Thank. You. So do you." He thrust the nosegay he was holding out towards her. "These are for you. John told me it was- I thought- anyway they were nice."

"Oh, thank you," she murmured. He watched as she bent, inhaling the fragrant roses, sighing delightedly. She went to the kitchen, finding a vase. She turned back, touching the soft petals, admiring them. "My favorites, how did you know I loved cabbage roses?"

"You said your father always grew them, and every year on the anniversary of his death there's a bouquet of them, on your desk." Sherlock said.

"Yes," Molly nodded. "I think he must have arranged for it before he died," she smiled at the nosegay. "These are so beautiful," she smiled up at him. "Honestly they're just…well," he reached into his pocket and she trailed off, seeing him retrieve a long velvet box.

"I hope…anyway you've done so much for me…I hope you will accept this…" He held out the box to her, suddenly as awkward as a schoolboy.

"Sherlock, you don't owe me anything," she hadn't even opened it.

"I know I don't," he said honestly. "I hope you don't think me so petty as to try and thank you for all you've done with diamonds. But…you- you said once…you watched that movie and the man gave the woman a necklace."

"Well I-"

"You sighed," Sherlock said. "Elevated pulse, you thought it was romantic."

"I-I did," she admitted. "But if you, you don't have to-"

"I want to," he insisted. He looked at the box, willing her to open it, so she did. She gave a delighted gasp and he reached for it, removing the necklace and moving to stand behind her to fix the clasp. She touched the cool metal, shivering as his fingertips brushed against the nape of her neck. She turned to face him, and again Sherlock had to remember to breath. "Just so," he nodded and went to the coat rack where a stole was hanging and held it out for her.

 **Some Time Later…**

"Is that all they're going to do?" John slouched at the table, holding Mary's shoes. Mary leaned against him, his arm over her shoulders as she yawned. In the ballroom, Molly and Sherlock continued to dance. No hint of anything substantial between them had happened. Sherlock was his usual self, deducing everyone, everyone that is, except Molly. He'd been the perfect gentleman. Conversation was easy between the pathologist and consulting detective, even if they discussed post-mortems and cases the way most people talked about cars or politics. There was some argument earlier over dinner, Sherlock insisted that he had solved a case, Molly swearing up and down she had been the one to find the knife blade in the victim's liver had contained traces of acid (the woman at the next table fainted, no one noticed). In the end, a compromise was reached. Sherlock had solved it, but he could make up for being ridiculous by dancing with Molly. And so for the past two hours he had tangoed, waltzed and fox-trotted to Molly's heart's content, and, if he was honest, to his own as well. He was enjoying himself immensely.

"Do be patient," Mycroft said. "It's only," he checked his watch. "Cripes. Twelve."

"It's early yet," Anthea said. "The party is still going."

"If you call this a party," Mary and John both muttered.

"Well our plan to get them together has clearly worked," Mycroft said, still watching the couple. John frowned.

"Has it? All they've done is argue about murders, discuss how quickly acid eats through a corpse, and dance."

"And you claim my brother as your best friend?" Mycroft tutted. "He's comfortable with her. He's not viciously tearing down every person in the room. Molly's attention is on him, she herself is not nervous around him. Tension is quite abated between them, of the hostile kind at any rate. The rather more carnal is…disgustingly apparent." He frowned at the couple. Anthea laced her fingers in his.

"Don't make me remind you of our trip to Moscow, mister-inappropriate-under-the-table-grabbing."

"Upper extremities are not inappropriate," Mycroft hissed as John and Mary burst out laughing. "Anyway you didn't seem that bothered by it." He sniffed.

"So, how long do we have to pretend that we know nothing of their set up?" Molly asked, looking over Sherlock's shoulder. He glanced at the table still watching them.

"I suppose we've toyed with them long enough," he waltzed them back to the table, holding Molly's chair for her. Mary smiled, applauding as Molly flourished her skirts.  
"Lovely," John nodded with a laugh.

"So…Sherlock," Anthea began, and the consulting detective rolled his eyes.

"I've already told Molly she looks beautiful tonight," he said. Molly flushed, biting her lip.

"Well, uh, wasn't it nice of Sherlock, to escort you, Molly?" Mary offered.

"It was," Molly nodded. "It's nice to do this, once in a while, I feel out of place here though,"

"Nonsense, you fit in beautifully," Sherlock said. The four looked at each other, and then at Sherlock and Molly.

"How long have you known this was a set-up?"

"Since Anthea said she'd just remembered she had a spare invitation to tonight's party," Molly admitted.

"Since John woke me up and dragged me to Savile Row." The four continued staring at them. " _What?!"_

"So…" Anthea gestured between the two of them.

"I hope you know how awkward this is for the both of us," Sherlock said, Molly giggled, covering her mouth.

"They just want us to be happy,"

"We are happy," he insisted. "Aren't we?"

"Yes…" Molly nodded. She glanced at Mary, who nodded, warmth shining in her eyes. "But…we- we could be happier…couldn't we?" Sherlock was very quiet, and no one moved. He blinked, drew a breath, and shifted his hand to his trouser pocket before quickly leaving it be. Only Mycroft noticed. He stood quickly, still holding Molly's gaze.

"May I see you home? Please?" She looked, panic-stricken to the others, Mary covered her mouth, wide-eyed.

"Of course you can," Molly smiled, blinking as if to clear her vision. "I'm tired anyway, thank you, Anthea and Mycroft, for the invitation, and my dress and everything, I'll see you Sunday, Mary?"

"Yes," she nodded, putting on a brave smile. Molly took Sherlock's arm, looking over her shoulder to the group before he led her away.

"Well," Mycroft tapped out his cigarette. "That's that."

"Oh my god what did we do?" John rubbed his face. Mycroft blinked, looking over at Doctor Watson.

"Isn't that the result you wanted?"

"No, I did not want them to awkwardly leave before he had a chance to properly ask her out, or- court her or even cripes, give her a chance!"

"He is," Mycroft said. Mary and John both looked surprised, Anthea just smiled. "What makes you think someone like Sherlock would sit with all of us watching and propose to the woman he loves? I certainly didn't when I asked Anthea to marry me."

"He's _what?_ "

 **Molly's Flat**

"Thank you for tonight," Molly said.

"May I come in?" Sherlock burst out.

"What?' she frowned.

"Um…tea, please."

"Oh, yes, I- I guess I could make us some," she nodded, unlocking her door. She set the fur stole on the coat rack, stepping out of her shoes. Moving across the kitchen, she took down the kettle. Suddenly Sherlock was taking it from her.

"Why don't you go change, I know you hate wearing that thing." She gave a laugh, nodding.

"You know me too well," she said, already unhooking the back of her dress as she walked towards her room. Sherlock stared after her, mesmerized until he felt water soak his cuff and he turned with a start, seeing he'd overfilled the kettle.

"Bollocks," he muttered. Setting the kettle aside, he took off his coattails, undoing the blasted bowtie and top collar button. A breath of air at last! Rolling up his sleeves, he returned to the task at hand, setting out Molly's favorite mug and a plate of light biscuits.

"Toast?" Molly called, appearing again from the bedroom and Sherlock stopped and stared, yet again. Clean of all the make-up, she'd taken out her contacts, opting for her glasses. Instead of the designer gown that showed off her svelt figure she'd replaced it with a comfortable night shirt (he was certain used to belong to him) and a pair of pyjama shorts. She looked at him, then tugged at the hem of her shirt. "What?"

"You're you again," she smiled. Coming to stand before him, she tugged at his opened collar, tossing the end of his tie.

"This is you as well," her eyes twinkled. "Much better." Standing so close together, Sherlock towering over her, Molly didn't know where to look. "Toast," she murmured again.  
"Yes," he nodded. "Please. I would like-" he never finished because they'd both stepped forward, finally embracing. However long the kiss lasted, Sherlock didn't know. He let instinct guide him until suddenly they pulled apart, the kettle whistling startled them. She pushed back her hair, face flushed, though she was grinning. She unplugged the kettle, filling their mugs. His arms came slowly about her waist, tugging her close. "You know what I'm asking you, don't you?" One hand left her waist, fishing through his pockets. His chin against her shoulder, he held her close, in the palm of his hand he held a glittering diamond ring. "I want…all of this, Molly Hooper," he murmured against her neck. "I want…the ridiculous tailcoats and ball gowns once a year, and the everyday baggy pyjamas you've pilfered from my flat and your mismatched socks and glasses that are bloody sexy on you. I want everything in-between. I want toast and tea and one in the morning and to fight with you about who solved what murder first and to discuss blood coagulation over breakfast eggs." She turned in the circle of his arms, head bowed and sniffling.

"Then you'd better put that on my finger," she lifted her head, smiling beatifically. He felt himself release a breath, smiling. "Because that's what I want too." The ring on her finger, he bent, kissing her again.

"Promise me one thing," he said, when they pulled apart and returned to making tea.

"Hm?"

"You'll keep those shoes." They looked at the discarded pale pink Louboutin's and Molly laughed, flushing red.

"Promise."


End file.
